


Turncoat Poison in the Dropping Rain

by Teeelsie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, Clint!Whump, Confusion, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Inadvertent Self-Harm, IronHawk - Freeform, M/M, Medical Disorders, No actual suicide attempt, Team Dynamics, discussion of suicide, written for the kinkmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 06:40:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10354383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teeelsie/pseuds/Teeelsie
Summary: From this prompt on the kinkmeme:"Someone is keeping a secret. For some [probably superhuman or supernatural lol] reason, they must drain a large volume of their own blood regularly to stay alive. They are ashamed of this and never do it in front of anyone, and usually find a not so messy way to take care of it. But they haven't done it in a while and are backed up so to speak. So, desperate for relief, they pick a half-assed hiding spot and slash themselves open and let loose, getting blood absolutely everywhere as they grow paler and colder. But it just feels so much better.Naturally, someone walks in on them."ORClint's got a medical disorder.  Honest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this prompt on the meme and it spoke to me so I thought, I think I'll write up a little scene. You'd think I would know better by now! 6500 words of back story to get to the 1600 word scene - LOL! And then a little bit more at the end to make it IronHawk - cuz that's a rare-pair we don't see enough of! 
> 
> Thanks KippyVee, for the super-fast beta on this!
> 
> Title taken from "Bad Blood", by Beck.

 

 

Honestly, most of the time he could almost forget he even has it.  It doesn’t really affect his life in any substantive way, and if it weren’t for the creeping fear of long-term consequences, he’d almost never think about it at all.  It wasn’t until he joined SHIELD and they’d done a whole slate of screening tests that he was even aware that he _had_ it.  But those two recessive genes mean that every couple of weeks or months, depending, he found himself in medical having a pint of blood syphoned out of him. Therapeutic phlebotomy – or TP - they call it.

 

Clint’s compound heterozygote for the H63D and C282Y gene mutations.  Typically, it takes two of the _same_ mutated genes to result in the disorder, so statistically, it should have put him at very low risk for actually having hemochromatosis.  But regular blood tests consistently showed increased levels of iron and iron saturation in his blood. 

 

As disorders go, they explained to him, it isn’t a terrible one to have.  The gene mutations mean that too much iron could build up in his blood.  If it goes unchecked for many years, a variety of things could occur.  The worst of the long-term effects can be pretty bad:  severe liver damage and/or heart failure.  Those were sorta scary to think about when you were 19, but somehow, they were abstract and seemed too far off to worry about.  But when they said that it wasn’t uncommon for people with untreated hemochromatosis to develop arthritis in their fingers and wrists, and sometimes their hips and ankles, too, _that_ made Clint pay attention. 

 

At the circus, Joel L’Enfant, the lion-tamer, had been about the only adult who ever showed any real kindness toward Clint.  He was caring and gentle in ways no one else was, and wasn’t unkind in ways that so many were.  But he was an old guy already by the time Clint and Barney made their way to Carson’s, and about a year later, he’d developed arthritis in his hands.  Over the next couple of years, it had gotten cripplingly bad, and eventually, he couldn’t hold the whip anymore.  And then one day he’d disappeared – fired, someone told him.  When Clint asked Mr. Carson why, he’d scoffed.  What had Clint expected?  That the business just keep carrying L’Enfant’s dead weight?  He was worthless, and Carson’s had no room for anyone who wasn’t useful.

 

Cold fear swept over Clint.  Where would he go if Carson kicked him out?  He knew he couldn't afford to be useless, so Clint picked up his bow to practice that day – and every day afterward - and didn’t put it down until every muscle in his body shook and burned and screamed at him to stop.

 

Even in those early days, Clint understood that he had a good thing going at SHIELD, so when the doctors said the word ‘arthritis’, Clint knew it was something he needed to take seriously.  But he was lucky and they had caught it early, before any damage had occurred.  All they needed to do was monitor his iron counts and saturation levels regularly, and if they got high, they would simply remove some of Clint’s blood, thereby reducing the amount of iron in his system and avoiding any long-term effects.  It was pretty simple, really. 

 

*

 

He got complacent about it, though; he knew he did.  He was Coulson’s asset, so his handler mostly took care of it for him.  He put Clint on a schedule and every two-weeks, like clockwork, Coulson arranged for him to go in and have a couple vials of blood drawn.  If they weren’t where he could get to SHIELD medical, Coulson made alternative arrangements, sending Clint to a discreet clinic or doctor’s office for a quick blood test.  Clint honestly had no idea how Coulson always managed to expedite it, or how he knew a phlebotomist and a lab no matter what part of the world they were in, but it was his job to keep his assets healthy and Coulson was very good at his job. 

 

Clint’s motivation to make sure that he remained useful and valuable to SHIELD meant that he became very attuned to the signals his body sent him.  After a few years, he thought he was even able to recognize when a slight sluggishness or extra bit of fatigue was telling him that he had too much iron.  More often than not, the lab results confirmed it, and Coulson would send him in for ‘leeching’, as they’d jokingly started calling it early on.  Sometimes that was every couple of weeks, sometimes every couple of months.  One notable year, when he’d been particularly conscientious about eating a low-iron diet, he’d only had to have TP twice.

 

So it wasn’t that Clint was irresponsible about it, it was just that he’d never had to _be_ responsible for it.  Even after Loki happened to them, and Coulson was gone, it still wasn’t Clint’s issue to worry about; that fell to Sitwell, who took over as his handler and made sure that Clint didn’t ever go too long without being checked out.  But then, well, Sitwell turned out to be fucking _Hydra_ , and SHIELD fell, and with it went SHIELD medical.  After that, there were no more handlers to send reminders, no more nurses with standing orders to take blood samples, no more lab techs to rush his blood tests, and no more phlebotomists to expertly draw the excess element out of his body.  Suddenly, Clint’s condition became a hell of a lot more complicated. 

 

In those chaotic months after SHIELD fell, Clint found himself in Albania for a while, and, remembering a sympathetic doctor Coulson had sent him to one time, he took a chance.  He didn’t manage to get back for another three weeks to get the results and when he did, he wasn’t one bit surprised to find his iron saturation levels sky high.  The doctor told him he should probably have two pints drawn, a week apart, and started to take out the needle and bag to pull the first one.  Clint thanked him and ducked out the back door.  The next day he found an underground doc who took care of it for him, and then Clint paid an extra $500 to have her show him how to do it for himself.  A week later, he poked a needle into his arm with a steady hand and drained the second pint. 

 

The hard part wasn’t pulling the blood, it was getting it tested.  He had to get his hands on the correct testing vials, keep the blood cool, and find a lab to run the tests, which was particularly hard to do if the blood didn’t come from an actual clinic or hospital.  And it was still pretty hard to know who to trust out there.  A few times, when he thought he was starting to feel more fatigued than he should be but he was on the move and it wasn't safe to stop to deal with getting tested, he just went ahead and drew a pint anyway – just to be cautious.  It probably wasn’t the smartest strategy – sometimes he probably didn't really need it and it only made him more fatigued - but ‘needs must’ and all that. 

 

When he finally made it back to the States after that mess in the Balkans, Stark had made him an offer; basically, a job and a place to live, setting up the Avengers as his own personal superhero team (though everyone knew Hill was really in charge on the ground and Captain America was in charge in the field).

 

It wasn’t a hard offer to accept.  Stark was incredibly generous and he provided Clint (and everyone else) everything he could possibly want or need, and some things that he had no idea he needed until Tony handed them to him – like exploding arrows, those were fucking awesome.  In exchange, Clint tried really hard to keep his salacious thoughts about the guy to a minimum, since that felt a little rude and like it was lacking in gratitude.  It was hard, though, when Stark was hot, fucking brilliant, funny as hell, and had balls the size of an elephant’s (figuratively, of course).  A deadly-perfect package in Clint’s mind.  But he didn’t want to creep the guy out in his own house, so Clint was careful to keep it to himself. 

 

When he did land permanently at the Tower, Clint never mentioned his condition to the rest of the Avengers.  Part of that was habit and part was that he didn’t particularly want to remind them all just how humanly fragile he was by comparison to the rest of them.  He didn’t want to remind himself, either; he was quite aware already, thanks.  Natasha knew, of course, because she’d been around with Clint and Coulson in a lot of safe houses and clinics over the years.  But he and Nat were about as close as two people who weren't fucking could be, and she understood his reluctance to bring it out into the open so she never brought it up.  One day, though, after a few not-so-covert worried glances on her part, Nat slipped him a piece of paper with the name of GP in New Jersey.  "He won't ask questions," she said, and turned quickly to leave before she'd have to see him flinch.  God he loved that woman. 

 

After that, he tried to routinely make his way through the Lincoln Tunnel – probably not as often as he should have, but often enough to keep a weather-eye on things.  Sometimes, though, he lost track of the timing when they got called out a lot, or he was distracted by an injury, or recovering from an injury, or trying to get back into shape after an injury.  Honestly, he took it seriously, it was just that sometimes it got away from him a little bit and suddenly he’d realize that he was weeks overdue for testing.  But he always kept a small stash of phlebotomy supplies hidden in his apartment for when that happened, in case he needed to deal with it himself. 

 

*

 

Clint reaches behind him to grab another arrow and comes up empty.  _Shit_.  The fight is definitely winding down, but it’s still a fucking bad situation to be in – standing on a wide-open rooftop with no cover or ammo, and of no help to anyone.  But there are a dozen of the flying robot-things on the roof across from him, out of commission with arrows through their power source. 

 

“Iron Man, you available to give me a lift?” he hazards over the comms.  “If I can get over to the next building I can repurpose a supply of arrows.”

 

“Sorry Hawkeye, got my hands full,” comes the reply, and Clint can see him battling a half-dozen of the things all by himself.

 

Hulk doesn’t actually wear comms – Clint can see him grabbing a couple of the flying bots out of the air and smashing them to the ground - and Thor is off-Earth.  Nat’s off with Fury on some mission and Cap can’t fly, so Clint knows he’s on his own.  He could make his way down the fire escape and probably arrive just as everything’s being mopped up, or he can try to be useful and stay in the fight.  He eyes the gap between the buildings warily.  He’s pretty sure he could make it easily if he was at his optimum, but he’s been up for going on 36 hours straight and this fucking battle has been going on for hours. 

 

“Sit tight, Hawkeye.  We’re about done here.  We can finish up,” Cap tells him, not even breathing a little bit hard as he flings his shield.

 

The ‘without you’ goes unsaid, but Clint hears it anyway and something inside him tightens.  He’s thinking that he might actually be tempted by Cap’s offer to sit the rest out because he’s so fucking tired, when he realizes that he’s not tired, he’s _fatigued_.  Panic bubbles up inside him when he remembers that he hasn’t checked his blood in over three months.  He’s in the middle of a fucking battle and _goddamn it_ , he’s letting his team down because he’s got too much fucking iron in his blood.

 

Clint slings his bow over his back and trots backward a few steps, not even hesitating before he shifts his weight and sprints forward toward the edge of the roof.  He accelerates hard through the last couple steps then uses every reserve he’s got to punch through and spring off the low parapet wall across the open maw between the buildings.  He windmills his arms and legs and flails across the gap.  The leap isn't quite good enough and his body slams into the side of the far building rather than landing safely on the roof.  He grasps desperately onto the ledge to try to keep from plummeting eight stories. 

 

“Hawkeye!” someone shouts in his ear, but he’s too distracted trying not to fall to work out if it's Cap or Tony.

 

“I’m okay,” he gasps immediately, trying to stifle a groan, then finds some store of energy to haul himself up and onto the roof, rolling onto his back, breathing hard.

 

“Hawkeye, report!”  This time he can tell it’s Cap, which isn’t a surprise.  But hearing Tony’s panicked, “Clint?”, is.

 

Clint jumps up and runs for the closest robot with an arrow in it.

 

“I’m good,” he pants harshly as he snatches the arrow, nocks it and shoots, sending a flying creature to its demise.

 

“Damn it, Hawkeye.  I told you to stay put!” Steve tries, and Clint laughs a little as he plucks out and shoots three more arrows, each hitting true.

 

Clint uses all but one of the repurposed arrows and when he finally stops to look, the battle is basically over.  He looks around and sees that this building doesn’t have a fire escape, so he grabs the last arrow and shoves it in his quiver to fit it with a grappling tip, then looses it down at an angle, hooks his bow over the line and starts sliding his rapid descent 80 feet to the ground.

 

He’s about 15 feet off the ground when he hears Tony yell and then there’s a crash behind him and suddenly he’s falling the last 10 feet, landing hard on his left side and knocking his head on the curb.  He thinks he hears more yelling – in a weird kind of stereo this time as he gets it through his ears and through his comm – and then he blinks a few times because things are kind of blurry, but when he tries to turn his head, sharp pain stabs through his skull and then he’s out.

 

*

 

He wakes up to see three anxious faces surrounding him:  Iron Man, Captain America, and Bruce, already de-Hulked.  He blinks and groans and starts to roll over so he can sit up, but an insistent hand to his shoulder pushes him back down.

 

“Easy, Clint,” Bruce says.  “Pretty sure you’ve got a concussion.  Just stay where you are.”

 

“Shit.  What happened?”  He tries not to sound as pathetic and weak as he feels.  He’s not sure he’s entirely successful in his effort.

 

“The last one of those flying ‘whatevers’ hit your line when it was falling and snapped it.  You fell about 20 feet,” Tony says, his voice sounding odd and tight from inside his suit even though Clint can see that the face plate is open.      

 

“Psshh.  It wasn’t more than 10,” Clint corrects, and this time he _does_ sit up, the others shifting back to give him room and Bruce using gentle hands to help him a little.

 

“I’m okay,” he asserts, pushing Bruce’s hands away.  “Really.”

 

“Clint, you’re really not. You were unconscious for five minutes.”

 

“Like I fell 20 feet?” Clint asks dubiously, then promptly turns to the side and vomits.  Cap jerks backward to avoid it but grimaces when some of it splashes onto his uniform.  "Sorry," Clint mumbles, then heaves again, noting that Cap has moved safely out of range this time.   

 

When he’s done, his head is pounding hard and Bruce is giving him a sardonic look.  “And you just threw up,” he says smugly.

 

Clint lays himself carefully back down and closes his eyes.  “Yeah, okay, maybe I have a concussion.” 

 

*

 

They take him back to the Tower because they all know he’s not likely to cooperate with the idea of a trip to the hospital and they’re all still a little leery of them anyway without SHIELD to back them up.  Bruce isn’t a medical doctor but he knows a lot about medicine regardless, and they’re all pretty comfortable with him as a substitute for things that don’t seem too serious.  Besides, Clint’s had a few concussions in his life and he’s pretty sure this one isn’t too severe.  It might be a _little_ worse than he’s letting on, though, because his head is sorta foggy and he’s maybe seeing double.  Or possibly triple, but who’s counting? 

 

They force him down to Bruce’s lab where they long ago set up a makeshift medical bay.  Clint glares at Bruce when it looks like he’s making to help Clint out of his uniform and Bruce backs off with an exasperated shake of his head.  Clint feels like he's moving like a 90-year-old man, but eventually he manages to get all the pieces and parts of his field suit off and finds he could care less that he's standing naked in front of Bruce.  Banner hands him an honest-to-God hospital gown and Clint raises an eyebrow at him; Bruce just shrugs and smiles sheepishly.  Once Clint’s settled on the exam gurney, Bruce tuts over the bruising on his left arm, ribs, hip and thigh where he landed, and Clint winces when he lightly palpates them. 

 

“You should probably ice those,” Bruce tells him, and Clint hums vaguely in acknowledgement.  “Anything feel broken?” Banner asks, because they’ve learned to trust each other’s assessments in that regard.

 

Clint shakes his head minutely.  “I don’t think so.  Just sore, but I can move everything okay.”

 

Bruce nods and continues his exam, skimming his fingers over the knot on the side of his head and shining his pen light in Clint’s eyes.  After a minute of poking and prodding and making Clint follow his finger, he sighs and sets down the light, then takes a step over to the sink and washes his hands.  “You’ve definitely got a concussion,” he confirms.  “Lots of rest for the next week or so.  And tonight we’ll need to wake you every two hours.”

 

Clint groans his annoyance – he just wants to fucking sleep for the next maybe two days straight but instead he’s going to be woken up to Steve’s earnest and worried face every couple of hours (Cap always gets stuck on concussion duty because he needs less sleep than the rest of them.  As annoyed as Clint is, it occurs to him that it kinda sucks for Cap, too, actually). 

 

Clint sits up and slips off the exam table, and almost collapses when his knees buckle.  It’s only Bruce’s quick hands that stop his face-plant.  “Whoa, whoa…” Bruce says with alarm and grips both of Clint’s upper arms tightly.

 

But Clint shakes him off.  “No, I’m good, Doc,” he says.  “Just a little tired.”

 

“Right,” Banner says, but the look on his face is more dubious concern than anything.  “Let’s get you to bed.”

 

“Shower first,” Clint growls and glares at Bruce, daring him to argue about it.  Thankfully he doesn’t, and that’s a nice surprise.

 

Bruce rakes his eyes up and down Clint’s body as though seeing the whole thing for the first time and snorts.  “Yeah, actually, I think your bed will thank you for that.”

 

“Fuck you, Doc,” Clint answers with a grin, and starts a wobbly walk toward the elevators to get up to his Tower apartment.  He’s still seeing double, and he still hasn’t quite mentioned that to Bruce, but he’s not really worried about it.  What he _is_ worried about – what’s started to niggle at the back of his brain – is remembering that he hasn’t had his blood-iron run for a few months and how fatigued he’d felt when he was standing on that roof watching the others fight on without his help.  He opens his mouth to say something to Bruce – to maybe tell him about his condition and ask if Bruce could sometimes help him out with monitoring it so he can test more regularly – but then the elevator doors open to a freshly-showered Tony, whose sharp eyes immediately scrutinize him.

 

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a great fashion sense, Barton?  No?  I can’t imagine why.”  His words are flippant but they don’t seem to match the intense expression on his face and Clint’s sluggish thoughts can’t quite process what the discrepancy means.  He sees Bruce give a meaningful glance at Tony and Clint furrows his brow, confused and annoyed by the silent conversation that seems to be going on beside him.

 

Clint’s brain feels thick and slow.  It’s like there’s a big filter in his head and his thoughts are trying to get through it, but the holes are too small so they’re backing up and getting jumbled.  He knows there’s more going on here than he can deconstruct and he shakes his head a little to try to clear it, but that just makes it pound viciously and he grimaces, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

 

“Barton?” he hears Tony say, sounding genuinely alarmed.

 

“Clint?” Bruce echoes immediately; the hand that he’s got squeezed around Clint’s right arm to help hold him up gets tighter.

 

Both of their words sound kind of hollow and echo-y in his head, but the concern is crystal clear, and Clint wills himself to pry his eyes open even though it sends cruel pain lancing through his eyeballs.  He stands straight.  “I’m good,” he says, forcing a lightness that’s nowhere near how he really feels.  “Just need a damn shower.  Loosen up the muscles,” he adds, deflecting them away from any further concussion talk.

 

They arrive at Clint’s floor and the two other men step out of the elevator with him and continue their escort.  “I don’t need babysitters,” he growls at them.

 

“Yes, you do,” Bruce replies simply.  “Steve should be here in a few minutes.”

 

Clint sighs.  Whatever.  He just wants to get in the damned shower and then into bed, as quickly as possible.  He decides he doesn’t actually give a shit if these two want to tag along for some reason, so he ignores them and moves toward the bathroom with a lack of grace that his body rarely exhibits. 

 

Bruce peels off to the kitchen – probably to make tea, Clint thinks – and Tony follows him into the bathroom, keeping a respectful distance.  He's not exactly sure why Tony's there, but Clint supposes it’s to make sure he doesn’t pass out in the shower or something.  Clint turns on the water, then slowly reaches his aching arms up and unties the stupid gown.  As soon as he drops his arms, the cover slips off his body and onto the floor, leaving him naked. 

 

Tony makes a small, choked sound behind him. 

 

“Like what you see, Stark?” Clint asks with a smirk.  He doesn’t turn around and look, though, because if he doesn’t, he can tell himself that Tony’s reacting to his nakedness in all its glory and not to the bruises that are already rising black and purple up and down his left side. 

 

Clint steps under the hot spray and it feels like heaven itself.  He puts his hands on the wall and leans into it, watching as the grime and dirt sluice off of him and down the drain.  He must lose track of time a little because the next thing he knows, Steve is standing there, curtain pulled back, and looking at him with a troubled expression.  Clint feels the tiny tug of disappointment that Tony’s made himself scarce.

 

“ _Clint_ ,” Steve says, and it sounds kinda like maybe he’s said it a couple times already.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m done,” Clint tells him and reaches back to turn off the water.

 

When he steps out, Steve hands him a towel and Clint barely wipes himself down before snatching the pair of boxers out of Steve’s hand and somehow managing to get himself into them.  He glowers at Steve when it looks like the man is about to try to help him, and Steve wisely backs off, hands up in surrender.

 

“Next time I tell you to hold, I’d appreciate it if you’d listen.”  Steve’s voice trails him back out into his bedroom.

 

“You know there’s like, zero chance of that, right?” Clint answers.  He wouldn’t usually admit that, but the concussion has scrambled his thoughts and somehow removed his brain-to-mouth filter.  Clint sits on the bed and picks up the three ibuprofen and glass of water that someone has put there for him.  He stares at the pills for a second, then takes a breath and swallows them down, drinking the entire glass of water.  Steve takes the empty glass from his hand and then Clint groans loudly when he gingerly lies back onto his bed. 

 

Steve huffs.  “Go to sleep, Clint,” he says as he takes a half-step closer to the bed.

 

“If you try to tuck me in, I swear to god, I will punch you,” Clint slurs, his eyes already closed.

 

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Cap tells him as he snaps off the lamp.  “I’ll be out in the other room if you need anything.  And I’ll be back to wake you in a couple hours.”

 

“Can’t wait,” Clint mumbles and is asleep almost immediately.

 

*

 

Clint wakes with a start, momentarily confused about where he is, but it only takes him a few seconds to realize he’s in his bed at the Tower.  His head is foggy and when his eyes finally adjust to the dim light, he’s seeing double.  It takes him considerably longer to remember how he got here and why he hurts so goddamned much.  Right.  Flying robots, out of arrows, fell the last 10 feet.  Clint relaxes fractionally when it comes back to him, and then tenses up again when he remembers the rest.  The part about almost missing the jump and the fatigue and the fact that he hasn’t checked his blood's iron levels in months. 

 

He’s pretty sure that he can _feel_ the iron clogging his blood, thickening it and making him useless.  Panic wells inside him and he sits up too quickly, causing a wave of nausea to hit him hard.  He stops and takes a few deep breaths (that make his ribs hurt like a sonofabitch – right, ribs bruised all to hell, too), then swings his legs slowly over the side of the bed.  When he’s reasonably sure he’s not going to vomit like he did on the street earlier, he stands on unsteady legs and makes his way to the bathroom, determined to do something about the poison flowing heavy and dangerous through his veins.

 

He stumbles in and flicks up the light switch and then has to stop and cover his eyes when the sudden brightness threatens to cause his brain to explode.  He stands in the doorway panting and has to think hard to remember what he’s doing there.   Right.  Blood.

 

He’s got a kit hidden in a false compartment he built as soon as he moved into the Tower, and he reaches to the back of the closet and taps it open.  He grabs a needle and a blood bag and stumbles backward, siding down to the floor after he hits the wall.

 

He’s done this before, just, never with a concussion.  His brain is pretty much trying to pound out of his skull and he’s still seeing double, if not triple.  When he looks at the equipment, his hands are shaking badly – he must be a little dehydrated and maybe his blood sugar is low.  But that can’t be right because didn’t Bruce hook him up to some fluids in the lab earlier?  Clint squeezes his eyes shut trying to clear his head and figure out if that’s right or if it’s a muddled memory from another time.  

 

After a few seconds, that issue seems totally unimportant and he puts it aside. 

 

He takes a hitching breath and it comes out shaky on the exhale as his panic grows.  He knows there are more protocols to follow – that he should be wearing gloves and should clean his arm with alcohol and should use a tourniquet – but at the moment, none of that seems important either.  The only thing that does, is getting the overloaded blood out of his body. 

 

His left arm is too banged up and he knows he’s not going to be able to use that hand for the fine work necessary to get a needle into his vein; thankfully he’s nearly as good with his right hand.   He groans as he lifts his left forearm and lays it in his lap, then grabs the needle cap between his teeth and pulls the needle free, absently spitting the cap across the room.  He makes several attempts at a puncture but his vision is blurring and he can’t keep his hand steady enough to get the fucking needle into a single one of his fucking veins, even though he’s got them bulging out all over the place.

 

He jabs himself once, twice, three times.  Fuck.  He stops, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  He pauses, then aims the needle at his arm again.  Four, five times, but his hand is shaking so badly that the needle drags across his arm, causing small beads of blood to well to the surface.  After three more unsuccessful tries he growls and throws the needle across the room in frustration.  Without pause, he leans up and opens one of the drawers to the vanity and roots around blindly until he finds what he’s looking for – one of the many small switchblades he keeps stashed around his apartment.

 

He should probably sterilize it but, fuck it, all he can think about is getting that fucking iron out of his body, so he just runs it under the water for a second and squints at his arm.  He’s got a lot of visible veins and any one of them would do, but he’s still having trouble focusing, so he picks the most prominent one he can see – the one that runs up from the crook of his elbow up toward his shoulder – and lifts the blade to the middle of his bicep.

 

Clint has to concentrate hard to get the tip of his knife where it needs to be, and even still, he misses on the first couple attempts.  He curses as the blade slips in his shaking hand just like the damned needle did.  He _finally_ gets the tip dug into the right spot and taking no chances, he pushes hard, feeling the clear, sharp fissure of pain that tells him he finally got it right.  He holds steady for a few seconds and takes a deep, shuddering breath, then adjusts his grip on the handle of the knife to make sure it doesn’t slip.   He grits his teeth and pushes in and down at the same time, taking no chance that he’ll mess it up again.  

 

The skin on his arm gives easily under the sharply-honed blade, gliding down through two inches of the vein like a hot knife through butter.  Bright, red blood bursts from his bicep, first in a spurt, then in a fast gush down his arm.  The knife is instantly coated in blood and it slips from his hand, clattering onto the tile floor, but it’s okay because it looks like it’s done the job he needed it to do.  Blood is flowing freely from his arm and Clint watches, mesmerized, as it pours into the crook of his elbow, then breaks, some streaming in rivulets further down his forearm toward his hand, and some wrapping around his elbow, dropping with the pull of gravity to the floor next to him.

 

The release of it is beautiful. 

 

He’s sure he can _feel_ himself being freed of the toxic iron in his body, and he breathes a bone-deep sigh of relief, relaxing for what feels like the first time in months.  He leans his head back and closes his eyes, smiling.    

 

He sits there for a while, feeling floaty and light, the heavy element no longer weighing him down, making him useless.  When he opens his eyes, he finds he’s sitting in a growing pool of red, which causes a distant sense of alarm.  All that red, slipping over the white tile and through the channels of white grout... that’s going to be a bitch to clean… gonna take a gallon of bleach…

 

Clint shivers a little and tries to concentrate on how much blood he’s probably released – wondering if it’s enough yet.  He watches the crimson pulse from his arm for a few more seconds and decides maybe it’s enough, but when he tries to lift his right hand to clamp it over the cut, it's too heavy.  His limbs are leaden.  Or maybe they're ironen - he sniggers at that - so maybe he’s not gotten enough out of him yet and he should let it go some more.  It’d be nice if he had a blanket or something, though, ‘cause he’s getting kind of cold. 

 

Oh.  Dimly, in the back of his mind he registers that maybe something isn’t right and he’s trying to figure out what it is when there's a knock on the door. 

 

“Clint?” he hears Steve ask tentatively.

 

Clint rolls his head and looks toward the door and then blinks, and--

 

\--Clint blinks again and thinks maybe he lost some time there. 

 

“Clint!”  Cap’s yelling and banging on the door now and, jeez, Cap, relax…

 

A second later the door bursts open, splintering off of its frame.  Some small pieces of wood sting across Clint’s torso, but he barely flinches.

 

“Oh my God.  _Clint!"_ he hears, but the words are muffled and it takes a lot of effort for him to connect the voice to Tony, who’s standing behind Steve wearing kind of a strange expression. 

 

_(Jarvis, get Banner up here, NOW!)_

_(Yes, Sir.)_

 

Steve moves fast - like a cat - Clint thinks and he sniggers again, but it quickly turns to a hiss of pain when he grabs Clint’s arm and squeezes hard. 

 

“Ow... jeez, Steve…” he murmurs, his head seeming to roll freely on his neck.  Huh, weird.

 

Steve doesn’t answer, just starts grabbing things and then slapping his face a little.  Clint tries to bat his hand away but finds he can’t lift his arm at all.  Steve looks tense and Tony looks scared.  What’s he so worried about?  He just has to get a little blood out.  It’s not that big a deal.

 

“Hav t’ gedit out,” he slurs, explaining to Captain America when he tips Clint’s head up to look into his face.  Oh, hey, and there’s Tony right there next to him, too.  When did he move from the doorway?  “ _Iron_ Man,” Clint snorts, because it’s kinda funny that _Tony_ is Iron Man when it’s Clint who’s full of iron.

 

“Clint,” he hears Tony say, sounding oddly upset, and Clint’s head lolls to the side as Tony wraps something around his arm. 

 

“ _Clint!_ Stay awake, Clint,” he hears Cap say in his ‘serious’ voice, and Clint would snigger at that too except that he’s too tired.  Then someone is slapping him again and he does blink his eyes open, not sure when he’d closed them.  And, hey, ow, he wishes they’d stop that.  “ _Clint_ ,” he hears one last time, but then his vision is tunneling down and the last thing he thinks he sees is Tony’s hand and it looks red and Clint wonders why he’s wearing his Iron Man gauntlets in Clint’s bathroom.

   

*

 

“Uh,” Clint grunts softly as he rouses. 

 

The first thing he sees is Steve, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head down, but he looks up as soon as he hears Clint.  Bruce is standing nearby with one arm wrapped around his middle and chewing on the thumbnail of his other hand, and Tony is leaning against the wall by the door, arms crossed and staring out the window.  They all look sort of haggard and like they’re sporting a couple day’s growth on their faces, which is definitely not normal for Steve.  He starts to reach up to wipe a hand across his own face to see if his matches when his hand is stopped short.  He looks down to see both of his wrists are bound to the bed by soft restraints.  He furrows his brow in confusion.

 

“What’s going on?” he croaks and is startled by how rough and weak his own voice sounds.  He doesn’t bother to ask where he is because it’s pretty obvious he’s in a hospital, but he has no idea why or how he got here.

 

“You’re in the hospital,” Steve tells him, sitting up fully in his chair.

 

“Yeah, I can see that.”  He means it to come out sharper or more sarcastic than it actually does.  “Why am I restrained?”  The last part comes out mostly as a whisper and Clint tries to clear his throat.

 

Across the room, he hears Tony exhale sharply.  “You tell us.”

 

Bruce has stepped up to the bed and he slips a straw between Clint's lips.  He eyes Banner gratefully as he takes several longs pulls of the water before turning his head a little, signaling to Bruce that he can back off. 

 

“I don’t… know?” he says, trying to piece together what’s going on.

 

“It’s standard procedure when someone tries to harm themselves,” Bruce says quietly, setting the cup back on the bedside table.

 

“When… what?” Clint falters, really confused now.  “I didn’t…” he stops, mind racing to understand what’s happening.

 

“Right, because you sliced open your brachial artery by accident,” Tony grits out through clenched teeth.

 

“No, I… _What?”_   Clint looks down at his arm, taking in the bandages for the first time.  Slowly, images of bright red blood on a white tiled floor begin to come back to him.  “Oh.”

 

Tony snorts derisively and turns away. 

 

“No,” Clint shakes his head.  “That’s not… That’s a mistake.  I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”  Clint looks wide-eyed at each of them.  Things are becoming more clear now and he’s starting to see what this must look like to his friends.

 

“Right," Tony retorts harshly.  "You just exsanguinated yourself for fun.  All the kids are doing it these days.”

 

Clint’s mind is clearing fast now and he’s starting to get agitated from being restrained like this.  He pulls against the straps, even knowing it won't do any good.  “Jesus, if I wanted to kill myself, I’d take out one of the, I don’t know, couple _dozen_ guns I have access to and put it in my mouth,” he snarls, and then feels instantly remorseful when he sees Bruce flinch.

 

Clint sees Tony open his mouth to say something else, but Steve has turned and gives him a quelling look.

 

“What _were_ you trying to do, then, Clint?” Steve asks.  He sounds uncharacteristically tired and oddly deflated.

 

Clint closes his eyes and sighs.  It’s pretty clear that he’s going to have to come clean to his super-powered teammates about just how humanly frail he is.  He steels himself and opens his eyes, blanking his own face and preparing for the disappointment he’s about to see on theirs.  “Okay, listen," he says, then pauses and takes a breath.  "I have a disorder that requires that I periodically have blood removed to control my iron levels.”

 

“Well, that’ll do it,” Tony says acidly.  “You cut your arteries open and you’ll lose some blood alright.”

 

“Tony,” Bruce interjects quietly and Tony shifts his glance over.  After a tense moment, Bruce turns back to him.  “You have hemochromatosis, Clint?”  There is a note of interest in his question.

 

Clint looks up at him sharply, nodding.  “Yeah… yes.  I do,” he answers, surprised and relieved that someone understands. 

 

“What the hell is that?” Tony asks suspiciously.

 

“It’s not in your medical file,” Bruce says.

 

“No, not… not in my public one.  It was in my SHIELD file.  Pretty sure Nat purged that one.”

 

Bruce turns to Steve and Tony.  “It’s a genetic disorder that results in the potentially dangerous build-up of iron in the body.  It can cause some pretty serious complications if it goes untreated.  The treatment _is_ actually to just remove blood from the body.”  As he says it, he’s leaned over the bed and begun to unbuckle the restraints. 

 

Clint looks down at his wrists and then up at Bruce.  “Thanks,” he says quietly.

 

Before he can get the first one unbuckled, though, Tony steps up and grabs Bruce’s wrist.  “Wait a minute,” Tony snaps.  “That doesn’t exactly explain why you sliced open your artery, Barton.”

 

“Look, it’s… it’s been a long time since I had a TP--”

 

“TP?” Cap asks.

 

“Therapeutic phlebotomy," Bruce supplies.  "It’s when they remove the blood.”

 

“Right.  It’s been a long time, and I… I guess maybe that concussion was a little worse than I thought ‘cause I remember that I wasn’t thinking too clearly.  For some reason it felt really important that I get that blood out of me, and when I couldn’t get it with the needle, I just went for a knife.  It was stupid, I get that now.  But I was really confused.  I swear.  That's all it was.”  He looks each of them in the eye, trying to make them see the truth of his words.

 

“There was a needle and blood bag in the bathroom,” Bruce tells them, looking pointedly at Tony and then back down at where the other man is still stopping him from unbuckling Clint’s restraints.  Tony releases Bruce’s wrist and steps back to lean against the wall, arms folded angrily across his chest again.

 

As soon as his wrists are free, Clint rubs each of them and then brings both hands up and wipes them up and down his face a few times.  “Look, I’m sorry about all this,” he tells his collected team.  “Maybe I should have told you about it, but it’s not that big of a deal, really, and I have it under control...”

 

Tony pushes hard away from the wall he’s leaning on and stalks back over to the bed.  “You have it _under control?_ ” he barks, his face pure anger.  “ _You fucking flatlined_ , you idiot!  The doctors were _this close_ ,” he holds his hand up, his finger and thumb a millimeter apart, “to calling it!”

 

There’s loaded silence in the room while Clint gapes at Tony then looks at the others.  Their expressions tell Clint pretty clearly that Tony’s not making that part up.  He ducks his head and stares at his arm.   Man, did he fuck this up.  He’s shown his weakness _and_ lost the trust of his teammates.  He looks up at them and opens his mouth to say something but before he can, Tony turns and slams out of the room.

 

Another moment of silence follows before Clint clears his throat and Steve and Bruce look back at him. 

 

“Guess Stark’s pretty mad, huh?” he says with a faint grin, but no one responds to his attempt to lighten the mood.  “Tell him I’ll take care of fixing the bathroom.  I know it’s got to be a mess.  Probably have to re-grout the floor…”

 

Steve and Bruce exchange a glance.  “I don’t think he cares about the bathroom, Clint,” Bruce says slowly.

 

“He was scared, Clint,” Steve adds.  “You had us all pretty concerned.  Tony was... very worried.”

 

Clint scoffs.  “That looked a lot more like he was pissed than worried,” he points out. 

 

Steve and Bruce exchange another glance.  “Sure, we’ll go with that,” Bruce says cryptically.

 

Clint hasn’t got a clue what the two of them are eyeing each other about but for the moment he’s too damn tired to care.  “Hey, I’m sorry about all of this.  I really never meant to cause so much trouble.”

 

“Well, it’s a relief to know that you weren’t trying to hurt yourself, Clint,” Cap reassures him.  “But I do wish you’d felt you could trust us.”

 

“Look, it’s not that I don’t trust you.  You know I trust all of you guys.  It’s just one more reminder and--” Clint huffs and looks away.

 

“Reminder of what?” Steve asks.

 

Clint sighs and looks up at Steve.  “Oh, come on, Cap.  Of the fact that, unlike you two and Thor, my body’s eventually going to give out and then--” he shrugs, not feeling like verbalizing the rest of it.

 

Steve blinks and looks a little perplexed, but then Banner shifts and all eyes are on him.  “Clint,” Bruce says gently.  “Get some rest.  I’ll talk to the doctors and explain the situation.  I’d like to have them check your iron levels before you go, but we can probably get you out of here today.”

 

“Yeah, thanks, Doc,” Clint answers, his eyes already closed so he doesn’t have to see the disappointment in their faces.

 

*

 

Clint finds out later that Bruce hadn’t waited for the ambulance before he’d risked a direct transfusion from Tony  – thankfully, a universal donor – and that if they hadn’t, Clint probably wouldn’t have even made it to the hospital.  As it was, he had still ‘technically’ died for about a minute in the emergency room before they’d been able to push more fluids into him and shock his heart back into action.  Tony had probably exaggerated a bit when he said that the doctors had almost called TOD, but based on the look on Bruce’s face when he tells Clint all of this, it probably wasn’t too far off the mark. 

 

It’s evening by the time he gets back to the Tower.  Clint's secretly hoping to see Tony - to try to explain some more and make things right between them - but there's no sign of him and Clint can't help feeling a deep fissure of disappointed at that.  Steve tells him that the guest apartment on his floor is set up for him, and he and Bruce must really believe he's okay, because neither of them tries to follow him.  Clint thanks them, but when he gets to his floor, he walks past the guest unit without stopping and goes straight to his own apartment.  He doesn’t turn on any lights until he gets to his bathroom, where he hesitates for a second and then flicks the switch up quickly.  When the harsh light floods the room Clint’s breath leaves him in punch and his stomach turns sharply.  _Jesus_ , no wonder the others had been so freaked out. 

 

It looks like a fucking bloodbath took place in the small room.  Blood is coated over nearly every surface – the floor, the walls, the vanity, the mirror, the shower curtain, the tub – though what would have been bright-red arterial blood, is now dried and faded to rusty brown.  There are bloody footprints smeared all over and when Clint looks behind him he sees multiple sets of them tracking across his bedroom floor and out into the hall.  He's suddenly lightheaded and he stumbles quickly over to the bed to sit down.  He bends over and puts his head between his knees, taking deep breaths to clear his head, all the while, berating himself for being such a fucking idiot.    

 

Eventually his head clears and he sits up and then tips backward so he’s lying down.  He had fully intended to sleep in the other apartment, but there something about the situation that makes it feel necessary for him to stay here - to face what he's done - so he kicks off his shoes and rolls over and closes his eyes.

 

The room doesn’t look any better in the morning; it's possibly worse in the light of day.  And it’s not going to take care of itself, so Clint grabs some cleansers from the kitchen and gets to work.  But it’s not long before he realizes that it’s really a lost cause and sits back to reconsider what to do next.  He heads down to the maintenance garage to get some tools – a crow bar, a sledge hammer, a large garbage bin – and goes to town on the room.  The work is slow because he’s still concussed and the bruises all along his side burn with the work, so what would normally take a day, takes him three, but eventually the bathroom is down to studs except for the bathtub, and he’s managed to tear up the bloody carpet, as well.  

 

Things pretty much settle back to normal between him and Steve and Bruce.  They don’t seem to be angry, and they both ask a lot of questions about his hemochromatosis, which he answers as best he can.  It makes him tense to talk about it at first, but Steve is more curious than anything and Bruce says he just wants to help Clint manage it if he can.  Before long, it doesn't seem like such a big deal anymore. 

   

But no one’s seen Tony since he returned from the hospital, and every time Clint asks Jarvis, he’s told that Tony’s in his workshop. 

 

Eventually he gets sick of the uneasy feeling he’s been holding onto since Tony walked out of his hospital room a week before and he stalks down to Tony’s lab.  He’s never been good at waiting for the shoe to drop, and if Tony’s going to kick him out of the Tower and the Avengers (can Tony do that?), then Clint would just as soon get that over with.  When he gets to the lab, he walks right in without knocking or asking permission.  Tony doesn’t even look up from whatever he’s doing at his workbench. 

 

Clint breathes out an impatient breath.  “What’s your problem with this?” he asks abruptly, knowing he sounds confrontational.

 

Tony continues to ignore him.

 

“Are you pissed about the bathroom?  ‘Cause I’ve demoed it down to studs and got rid of all the blood and I’ll pay for the fixes--”

 

Tony finally looks up.  “I don’t care about the _fucking bathroom!"_ he snaps.

 

“Then what the fuck is your issue?” Clint snaps back, pinning him with a hard look that belies how incredibly vulnerable he’s feeling.

 

Tony drops his tools onto the table with a clatter and stands up from the stool.  “My _issue_ , is that you fucking _died,_ Clint!”

 

A wave of guilt and insecurity crashes over Clint and he looks away for a moment and then back.  “Look, I’m sorry about that.  I told you I didn’t mean--”

 

Before he can go any further, Tony is on him, grabbing his shirt with both fists and bodily pushing Clint three steps backward, thumping him hard into the wall of the lab.

 

“Tony, what…?” Clint starts. He’s not worried; he can easily take Tony in hand-to-hand even on his worst day, he’s just not sure what the hell is going on.  He searches Tony’s dark eyes, shaking his head minutely in confusion until he sees it; Stark’s eyes are darker than usual – his brown eyes shot nearly black with how dilated his pupils are.

 

And then Tony’s mouth is on his and Clint's eyes close and his mouth opens as he immediately lets Tony in, ‘cause he’s been thinking about this for months and he’s not stupid enough to pass up the opportunity.  He relaxes into the wall behind him and lets Tony lead, still not entirely sure what’s going on but happy enough to go along with whatever it is.  The kiss is messy and wet and Tony’s tongue feels desperate in his mouth, and _possibly_ a small breathy whine slips out of Clint because it’s exactly like he imagined and he never wants it to stop.  Unfortunately, and far too soon, Tony breaks the kiss. 

 

Tony stays close in Clint’s space and they’re both panting a little, and Clint can’t stop himself from staring down at Tony’s mouth, all pouty and red and glistening wet.  He reaches up and slowly wipes some excess spit from Tony’s bottom lip with his thumb before he looks back up, searching Tony’s face for answers.  “What is this?” Clint asks, the words coming out raspy.

 

 _“I don’t want you to die,”_ Tony says in a rush, shaking him a little with his hands still fisted in Clint’s shirt.  Then Tony lets go and drops his hands and pushes a half step away; Clint misses the warmth of him immediately.

 

Clint's heart is pounding but he doesn't want to jump to conclusions because this could just be some sort of weird, delayed stress-reaction or something.  He tilts his head a little.  “Well, I think we’re all pretty much in agreement,” he says slowly, forcibly denying any creeping hope, “that none of us wants the others to die.  So, that doesn’t really answer my question.” 

 

Tony backs up another step and it takes all of Clint’s self-control not to reach out and pull him in again. 

 

Tony takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair, then drops his arm and looks Clint in the eye.  “It’s… There’s something there... here..." he flaps his hand between the two of them, "I think.  I don’t know what it is but I think I want to, and I don’t want you to die before we can find out.  Well, I don't want you to die at all, but I especially didn't want you to before I had a chance to do that,” he says, pointing vaguely between Clint's mouth and his own.  He looks nervous and when he finishes, he crosses his arms defensively, as though bracing himself for rejection.

 

Relief washes over Clint and the corners of his mouth quirk happily upward.  “Okay, Tony, I can work with that,” he answers, before reaching out and grabbing Tony’s arms, gently unfolding them and pulling him back in.  Tony comes willingly, his hands immediately move to loosely grip Clint’s hips.  Clint tips his head and slots their mouths together, both of them opening to it automatically.  This kiss is less frantic, slow and kind of sweet, and Clint’s just getting invested when Tony pulls back again.  Clint sighs sadly and drops his head back against the wall, looking at Tony through hooded eyes.

 

" _What,_ Tony?" Clint asks, frustrated because he'd much rather be kissing Tony than talking.

 

“So, the part about wanting you not to die…”

 

“Mmm,” Clint grunts in annoyance, because he sincerely does not want to be discussing his inevitable demise right now.

 

“Jarvis?” Tony says, taking another step back with a small grin on his face.

 

“Sir,” Jarvis replies, polite as always.

 

“Can you give Clint the rundown?” he says, stepping back over to his workbench and picking up his tools again.

 

“Of course, Sir.  Mr. Barton should have his Serum Iron, Serum Ferritin and TIBC tested again in 12 days.  After that, tests should be run at least monthly, possibly more often depending on what his levels are.  A complete schedule with reminders has been programed into his StarkPhone, to be automatically updated according to changing results.  A large supply of the appropriate color-coded vacutainer tubes is being delivered to Dr. Banner’s lab, and a private laboratory to test the samples has been brought online.  Additionally, we have hired a discreet, private nursing service that will be on 24-hour call and available whenever Mr. Barton requires therapeutic phlebotomy.”

 

Clint rolls his eyes and pushes away from the wall.  “Alright, Tony.  I get it.  I get it.”

 

Tony just smirks and spreads his hands.

 

Clint huffs and heads for the door.  He pushes it open and then pauses, looking back at Tony, who’s already engrossed in whatever it was he was doing when Clint interrupted him earlier. 

 

“So,” he says, and Tony looks up at him, eyebrows raised.  “We already work together and eat together and live together, so, what?  Now we’re gonna…?”

 

“Add sex. Yes,” Tony agrees, then focuses back down at the project on the workbench.

 

“Okay,” Clint lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug of agreement.  “You let me know when you want to start that,” he adds amiably, waving with one hand as the door starts to close behind him.

 

“Soon!” he hears Tony yell after him, and Clint doesn't even try to hide his smile as he ambles happily down the hall.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hemochromatosis is a real disorder and as I've had reason to be educating myself about it recently, I've tried to accurately present facts about it's genetic origins, signs, symptoms, risks, and treatment - in that, hand-wavy, I'm-not-a-doctor, kind of way. If you are interested in learning more about it, this website is a good place to start: http://www.hemochromatosis.org
> 
> Oh, this was also sort of a fill of another prompt from the kinkmeme from a while back:
> 
> "Clint & Team; He's flatlining, call it.
> 
> I am dying to know the origin of all the harassment and teasing Clint experienced after getting injured (in the beginning of AoU); Bruce, Tony and Natasha were merciless and I loved it. When/why did that start?"
> 
> In my mind, this event becomes the catalyst for relentless harassment of Clint every time he gets injured... as sort of a reminder to him not to underestimate his injuries and to tell his team about what the hell is going on... Of course, he's never going to be COMPLETELY honest about that stuff, but maybe he'll be a little better from now on... ; )
> 
> Comments and feedback are always appreciated, cuz they're awesome and give me perspective. Thanks for reading! : )
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at teeelsie-posts.tumblr.com. Feel free to send messages or asks over there!


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